Charlotte shrugged. "Ships are for boys."
I searched about the room for something else to show her. "This is Annabel."
She gave poor Annabel one disdainful glance. "Is she your only doll?"
I frowned—Annabel wasn't a doll—she was my companion, my confidante.
Charlotte tossed her ringlets. "I have ten dolls and four sets of dolls' chairs and tables and five little china tea sets and a doll's house this big." She raised one gloved hand to shoulder height.
She was obviously proud of these things so I tried to look impressed.
Searching for something to impress her in my turn, I said, "Would you like to see my collection?"
This seemed to provoke a spark of interest. "Oh do you have a collection? I have three drawers of shells my sister gave me."
I thought the whole point of collecting was that you did it yourself, but it seemed rude to say this so I didn't. "My collection isn't one thing—it's more of a variety," I explained, rummaging under the bed for the box.
Smoothing her skirts, Charlotte sat down on the bed and I proceeded to lay out my collection on the counterpane: beginning with a handful of leaves I had picked up because I liked their colour and shape. The original reds and golds had faded now, but I liked to trace the pattern of veins and to hear their crisp rustle. I had five big shiny conkers from the tree down the street, several feathers from different kinds of birds, and a dead beetle in a matchbox. I couldn't tell what Charlotte was thinking. She regarded everything with a small frown but she shuddered at the beetle.
I had saved the best till last and brought it forth with a flourish. "And this is my mouse!"
Charlotte's reaction was disappointing. She shrieked and put her hands to her mouth.
"Don't worry, it's dead," I reassured her. "And it's not rotting because it's in formalin. Papa showed me how to do it." I regarded the contents of the glass jar fondly.
"Take it away. It's disgusting. Ugh, I'm going to be sick."
I was disconcerted. "But look, you can see everything—the pink lining inside its ears and its little claws."
Charlotte wailed.
I obviously wasn't going to be able to interest her in the finer points of my specimen so I put it back in the box, together with the rest of my collection, and stowed it under the bed.
Charlotte leapt up as if she'd been stung.
I tried not to let my exasperation show. I knew from observing Mamma that a polite hostess hid her true feelings from her guests, but I was finding it very hard indeed. Charlotte wasn't anything like Grace. The long afternoon stretched before us interminably.
But then I noticed her legs, and I cheered up. Surely this would interest her. "I see you're wearing green stockings."
She looked affronted. "That's a very personal remark. Why do you comment?"
"Would you like me to test them for arsenic?"
"What?"
"Arsenic. Green clothes often have it in them. It's quite easy to test for it, Papa showed me how." I felt under the bed again and pulled out the old case I kept my equipment in.
I took a phial from it and removed the stopper. My eyes immediately started watering but I pressed on. "What you do is drop liquid ammonia on the stocking and if they've used arsenite of copper for the green colour, it turns blue. Isn't that exciting! It means your stocking is poisonous."
I held out the phial towards Charlotte. "Do you want to have a go?"
She backed away, staring at me with eyes as round as pennies. Then she let out a sigh, as if she had been holding her breath. In a voice as small as a pin she said, "I think I would like to go home now."
Glee filled me at her words.
"All right. I'll go and ask Mamma."
As I went towards the door, Charlotte shrank away from me, pressing herself against the wall, as if she was frightened of me.
Well, I didn't care. As long as I could continue with my experiments, which Papa approved of, I didn't care what Charlotte Mitchell or anyone else thought of me.
After breakfast the following morning, Weeks makes us stand by our beds with Eliza stationed at the door to watch over us. As soon as Weeks goes out, the old woman, Miss Coles, collapses on to her bed, weeping.
Eliza has been peeping out of the door.
Suddenly she announces, "Ladies, Dr. Bull is coming."
Everyone stands to attention. Even Miss Coles, red-eyed, hauls herself up from the bed. A procession enters the room: an imposing woman who must be the matron, followed by the doctor, then Weeks, who is carrying a set of document files. They halt at the bed opposite mine.
This is wrong.
We should be able to talk to the doctor in private.
But I will speak. I must speak. The doctor will listen to me and soon I'll be leaving.
Dr. Bull is nothing like Papa. He is young with bushy side-whiskers and black hair gleaming with macassar oil; his parting looks as though it has been drawn with a ruler. An expanse of white linen cuff extends beyond his coat sleeve and he carries a large shiny leather bag. His appearance suggests he thinks a lot of himself.